


Guzmania

by 43501



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8784718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/43501/pseuds/43501
Summary: He's tough, seeming careless with his brutality, but is wound tight as a clockspring, not knowing which direction to lash out in, alone as he is at the top. You could only revere him from afar, until now. [Explicit Guzma x Female Reader with elements of pheromone drugging, size difference and complete emotional annihilation.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-upload of something that was deleted because I lost confidence (and I reworked a few small parts). Fuck this gay earth and everything in it. I wish I never wasted time writing it, but I did, and I labored for the better part of three or four days of my life so it'd be pointless not to release it into the wild. I also realize nobody else is going to write anything quite like this so on that merit it was worth reposting.
> 
> It's the last thing I'm going to write for this site. I give up. I can't compete, and I can't meet certain expectations. I sincerely hope you can derive some enjoyment out of it.

Plumeria tasking you to pamper her Pokemon wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. You’ve held a reputation as a naturally talented groomer ever since you first joined Team Skull and the admin was dazzled by the impeccable presentation of your own Pokemon. It wasn’t long before the other grunts solicited your expertise as well, seeking you out to be taught a technique or two.

Life in Po Town isn’t glamorous, but Team Skull is like family.

Squatting on the second-floor foyer of the reclaimed mansion, Plumeria’s Salazzle sits in front of you, faced away. You scoop another heaping of the expensive scale moisturizer, wondering how on earth Plumeria procured it. You realize ‘theft’ tops the list of possibilities and stop questioning it, working the glop into a thin layer between your hands before applying it to its back, working it in with the practiced motions of your fingers. 

“Thanks for holding still for once, Salazzle.” The creature turns its head to look at you at the mention of its name, intelligent eyes blinking. Conversations with Pokemon were always one-sided, but at least they understood human language and it was a way to pass the time. “Is it all this rain putting a damper on you? I guess it mustn’t be pleasant, being a fire-type and all.”

As if agreeing, Salazzle’s long maw stretches wide open in a yawn. 

“Yeah, I feel that way too.” You glance over at the second floor balcony. Rain was still falling - it hasn’t ended for a few days now - and although it’s around midday the sky is dark enough to be mistaken for nighttime.

The mansion appears empty but for you and Plumeria’s Salazzle at present. The air smells stagnant, the long unwashed, musty carpeting unsuited to the tropical humidity of the region. Smears of colorful paint mark the walls here and there, an assertion of Team Skull’s claim on this mansion and the city surrounding it. 

“You know, I have a secret,” you start, trying to fill the mansion’s eerie silence with idle talk, “I have somebody I like.” Salazzle turns to look at you again, seeming marginally less sleepy than a moment ago. You smirk, finding the prospect of a Pokemon being intrigued by such seemingly human affairs humorous.

You apply another generous coat of lotion to the base of the Salazzle’s long tail, smoothing out the solution in an even coat toward the tip. 

“Don’t get too excited, there’s not much more to say. I’m pretty sure he barely knows I exist. It must be nice being able to just make yourself smell good when you want to be noticed.” The Salazzle shuts its eyes and skews its head slightly, approximating a shrugging gesture.

You reach the end of its tail and look down to appraise your work. Its ebony hide gleams in the low light and it looks quite show-worthy. Plumeria will be pleased.

“There you go, all done. I hope you realize you’re the most spoiled Salazzle in all of Alola.”

The Salazzle chitters affirmatively, springing to its feet and relishing in the joy of movement once more. You allow it a few moments to stretch out before you reach into your pocket to retrieve its Pokeball.

Interrupting, it whips around and moves in toward you. It begins rubbing its smooth, rounded head beneath your chin, not unlike a contented Meowth with its beloved owner, tail thrashing back and forth happily. You hug it in response.

“I’m glad you appreciate it.” You can’t help but smile at being lavished with affection. “Alright, I’m going to send you back into the b-”

It doesn’t stop. In fact, Salazzle’s marking grows increasingly more vigorous with each passing second, involving its entire body in the motion. It amuses you until you feel a cool, slimy sensation against your skin, causing you to panic.

“Whoa, whoa, I love you too, but you’re gonna wipe off all of that scale wax. Your owner went to a lot of trouble to...” ‘Steal’, you think, “... Get it for you. And you don’t want to go through all of that again, do you?” 

Ceasing now, it steps back and stares at you incredulously. This time you can’t make out what it’s thinking. Taking the cue, you press the button on its Pokeball, returning it. 

Sighing, you stand from your squat, Pokeball in one hand and half-empty tub of scale polish in the other. It should be enough for another coat. You make your way toward Plumeria’s quarters to deliver her belongings when you notice that all of a sudden, you smell like a bottle of perfume was broken over your head. You wonder why you hadn’t realized how aromatic the substance was while you were working with it.

Your eyes sting and your senses are almost overwhelmed as you let yourself into Plumeria’s room, setting her belongings on the desk. An assortment of cute Pokemon plush dolls are lined up on the far side of her bed, leaning against the wall and set atop a frilly pink bedspread. You reflect on how the room is perfectly suited to her tastes and personality. You feel like you shouldn’t be allowed to linger here, so you exit back out into the foyer.

Running fingertips over your upper body, you feel the slight tackiness lingering. You’d hoped that it’d absorb into your skin as lotion ought to - you wouldn’t have to deal with cleanup that way - but nothing is ever easy. You glance outside. Taking advantage of northern Ula’Ula’s unceasing downpour to bathe when the water wasn’t running was a time honored tradition among grunts.

Stepping out onto the second floor balcony, the rain is warm. No surprises there - you’d only ever felt it run cold here when a tropical storm was coming. Droplets patter softly against your skin where it’s exposed. It isn’t heavy enough to actually get you clean, you muse, but the sensation is oddly cathartic nevertheless. You fold your arms and lean against the white marble balustrade.

The walls encircling the city stand tall against the skyline, imposing and ever-present. In a different time, these four walls kept out undesirables and insulated the wealthy residents within. Nobody could have ever predicted the sudden and violent uprooting of the status quo by a single man and his adulating followers. Evidence of that great struggle remains, roads littered with debris and choked by gargantuan stone barricades, window panes smashed in and graffiti scrawls covering every other surface. 

It’s been dark for months now. Power to the houses were cut one by one until only this mansion remained lit, the rest of the town snuffed out. Even the Pokemon Center in the distance operates on only a small trickle of energy from an intact backup generator, turned on only when the center’s facilities are required. 

Down below, you sight a familiar man in an unkempt Alolan police uniform. The dead-eyed officer ambles through the dilapidated streets like a languid shadow, tracing his patrol route from a time long past. You avert your eyes and hope he doesn't notice you. Not because he was ever the type to reprimand - simply because the last time you caught his gaze, his world-weary visage looked right through you.

You press your damp forearm to your nose and inhale. Well, it doesn’t seem to smell anymore, at least as far as you can tell. You can still feel a thin coat of something clinging to your skin and clothes, but nothing short of soap and water would cure it. It’d have to wait until later.

You move for the door and depress the handle to let yourself back into the mansion. It doesn’t budge. Fuck, you’ve locked yourself out. Not for the first time, either.

You glance right to the series of planks forming a makeshift, haphazard catwalk stretching over a section of roof to a broken window. It was a route that passed by the boss’s throne room and therefore carried the possibility of being subject to Guzma’s whims if one was unlucky enough. But it beats scaling down the side of the building, so you take it anyway. 

Twisting your body past the broken glass, you step out into the other side of the upper foyer. You begin to make your way toward the stairs down, but halt when you notice a familiar presence at the end of the short hallway.

Guzma stands with his back to the door to his room. His expression is unguarded, almost soft, and it appears he hasn’t noticed your entrance. You note that he isn’t wearing his chain or sunglasses - the absence of a few accessories renders him strangely naked. He’s clutching an unfurled sheet of eggshell white paper and accompanying envelope, absorbed in its contents.

The delicate and fanciful stationery seem out of place being held in Guzma’s enormous, graceless, callous-marred hands. He shuffles slightly and something on the back of the envelope glints. For just a moment you caught a glimpse of a holographic insignia of some sort. What was that thing? Something like a golden trident?

Your blood runs cold when your gaze flickers upward and you find his slightly wild eyes fixed on you. The team skull boss seems uncharacteristically caught off-guard. He shoves the papers into a jacket pocket, crinkling them in the process.

“I, uh... Sorry for the disruption, boss.” You quickly offer. “Went out on the balcony and got stuck. I’m just coming back in the other way.”

“Yeah, right, I can see that,” he says, tone contemptuous, “you got something to say to me, or were you just admiring the merchandise?”

You can feel your face burn behind your bandana, the skull-marked cloth concealing the humiliating flush brought to your cheeks. With a word he'd cut through the bullshit you were spewing, not fooled at all by the pretense. “Just wanted to ask if I could make myself useful, maybe I can grab you a bottle of something from the cellar-”

“Still got plenty up here. If that bourgeois bastard ever did anything right in his life, it was leavin’ me with all this quality booze.”

You wonder if that’s entirely accurate, given the mansion’s current state as a broken bottle graveyard. “If that’s the case, I’ll get out of your way.”

“Wait, hold up.”

“Huh?”

“What on earth... What’s that smell? It’s totally sweet. Did somebody bring in desserts from outside?”

“Desserts? Sorry, boss, I don’t know. I don’t have anything like that.”

“Oh? S’that so?” His towering form finally peels away from the door, approaching to walk slow circles around you. 

“Y-yeah.” You wring your sweaty hands together. The whole scene makes you feel distinctly like prey being sized up by a predator. He stops suddenly behind you and you’re too petrified to move. You swear your heart flatlines when you feel what you think is his mouth and nose pressed gently to the crown of your head. 

“No, it’s definitely you.” A tense beat of silence. “Change your shampoo, it’s wack.”

“Wh-Whatever you say, boss.” Between that heart-stopping moment of physical contact and the bizarre yet completely earnest request from your superior to switch your personal care products, you can barely parse everything that’s occurring.

He doesn’t care to reply and breaks away from you. Your knees buckle and you can’t tell whether you’re relieved or disappointed that it was over so soon. Eyes pointed down, you hasten toward the stairs to make an exit when a large hand closes around your wrist, gripping so firmly it’d be liable to cut off circulation.

“Oi, that really hurt-”

You spring to your defenses, but he’s already at point-blank range when you whirl around, too close to ward off. He’s stooping deeply to match your level, face hovering mere inches from your own and sniffing the air around it. His eyes are bleary and unfocused. Was he drunk? It was possible, but even at this close distance you can’t detect the smell of alcohol on his breath.

“Guz- I mean, boss, you alright?”

He closes in, scalding face pressed into the crook of your neck, nuzzling and inhaling. The stubble growing along his jawline sends a tremor through you when it scrapes over your flesh. Encircling your waist to draw you closer, you feel the muscles in his thick arms bunched with tension. His huge, sturdy chest swells and expands to its limit with the deepest intake of air you’ve ever witnessed, drinking in something about how you smell.

“I, uh... So... I don’t get it, are you bothered by it or not?”

“Shut up.”

Guzma pulls back slightly, breaking the embrace and cupping your cheeks in his hands. They easily encompass your entire face, long fingers curling around your skull and threading through your hair. Fumbling for a moment, he hooks his thumbs over the rim of your bandana and yanks it down to expose your face. Your neck is craned back as far as it can go to accommodate his height as he leans in to stamp a kiss to your lips. His mouth is rough and dry, but it isn’t unpleasant.

“How come... Why’ve... I never noticed how cute you are before?” His speech comes out slurred and uneven, eyes watering and bloodshot from beneath his glowering brow. Definitely drunk, or at least high on something. 

You have no idea how to reply. “I... Thanks. You’re a prime specimen yourself, boss.”

He releases your face and allows his hands to wander, touch drifting down your front and over your breasts, curving around the small of your back and eventually settling on your hindquarters. You squeak as he clamps his fingers, seizing greedy handfuls of your rump. You find yourself desperately wanting to reciprocate but you’re too afraid to touch him back. It was a scenario you’ve dreamed of countless times, but now that you’re here and it’s really happening, you don’t know what to make of it. It was easier when he was the ‘jerk with a heart of gold’ you conjured in your mind’s eye and not the capricious, temperamental man he was in reality. You tentatively wrap your arms around his waist and nestle into him, allowing him to do as he pleased and merely basking in the sensations. 

He darts back down, to the other side of your neck this time, and a revelation finally hits you.

The Salazzle.

You’d unwittingly exposed your boss to potent Pokemon pheromones, and now he’s fixated on you. An involuntary groan is wrenched from your throat when he slathers his tongue over an exposed sliver of shoulder, dragging it over your throat and then dipping down to suck at your collarbone. You notice that Guzma’s ministrations follow the pattern of where the Salazzle has generously marked you, hungrily lapping up the remnants of mucus and drugging himself further and further. His huge mouth leaves behind sopping wet trails, hot breath fanning out over your skin. He’s near-breathless when he breaks away from you.

“So,” he starts, and it’s evident that he’s using every ounce of focus and willpower to hold himself back and string together a sentence, “do you still feel like making yourself useful, girlie?”

Was that a trick question? Could you even refuse if you wanted to? Was he just asking to screw with you? Your thoughts are briskly shoved aside by a vision of his mouth on you from a moment ago and an accompanying twisting ache somewhere in your gut. “Sure. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Come.”

He doesn’t actually wait for a response and pulls you up off the floor with only a single arm, hoisting you over his shoulder in one effortless motion. He spares a moment to turn around, checking to see if anyone was watching. Apparently satisfied that you two were alone, he carries you into his room, kicking the door shut behind him with a wall-rattling bang. You hang limply off him as he fiddles with the lock, attempting to latch it one-handed, cursing it under his breath until it eventually clicks.

Once inside, Guzma unceremoniously flings you onto his enormous bed. You flinch when you hit the mattress, dropped from his standing height like a ragdoll.

He climbs on top of you and crashes his mouth into yours, this time showing no semblance of restraint. Seeking full contact, he neglects to support his own weight, instead allowing himself to drape over you. Your tongues greet one another, although you can feel his lording over yours as soon as they touch. The gentle roll of it in your mouth is intoxicating, enveloping you with his heady, masculine smell, dragging you under. You suddenly feel like you’re the one that’s being drugged. Each coil sends a twinge down your body, accumulating between your legs. You realize you haven’t taken a breath in a while. You can’t breathe.

Guzma is heedless of your predicament as you sputter and wheeze into the kiss, rapidly growing lightheaded. His significant weight crushes the air out of your lungs, flattening you between him and the mattress. Dizzying from lack of oxygen, your body convulses, thrashing beneath him in a desperate attempt to make him notice something’s wrong. Whenever you try to make noise or gasp for air all you get are mouthfuls of his molten saliva.

He lifts himself off you, wiping his mouth. Sweet relief washes over you when you can finally fill your lungs again and you wonder if you’re going to escape this encounter intact. While you’re recovering from the kiss, you hear a zipper being pulled and the rustle of clothes. Glancing down, you see him rend his lower half bare with frankly impressive agility, tearing off his pants and allowing them to fall off the side of the bed. 

He’s at full mast already. And its size is in proportion to everything else about him.

You pick at the clasp of your shorts but your hands tremble terribly and you find that you can’t quite unbutton them. The frustration of failing such a basic task and being closely watched makes you self-conscious and all of a sudden undressing for him seems impossible. Guzma appears unamused, idly stroking himself as he watches you fumble.

“Cripes... Just let me do it.”

He smacks your hands away and pops the button undone on his first attempt, yanking your shorts and panties down. He maneuvers to pull them off your legs completely, balling them up in a fist and lobbing them to somewhere else in the room.

“There, that’s much better.” 

You feel incredibly exposed as he pushes your knees out to your sides, directing you to go spread-eagle. You comply, toes curling. His pupils dilate as he shamelessly regards you in your current state, bared and presenting for him. You hear his throat click with a sort of choke-swallow and realize he must’ve been salivating. Moving quickly, he shuffles into the space between your legs, breath stuttering as he works the head of his prick between your slick folds to align himself.

His hips advance and you gasp as you feel him bury himself in you inch-by-inch without any proper warmup, the girth of it stretching you out until he’s pushed against the breach. Despite ample lubrication the insertion is larger than anything you’re used to. He swells further at the stimulation, the bulge of his cock pushing out against your clamping passage. His mouth curls into a satisfied smirk as he watches you squirm and shift your hips in a bid to adjust to him, aroused but uncomfortable. 

“What, big bad Guzma too big for you?” His teeth glint with a dark grin as he draws back and rams forward to punctuate his statement, sheathing with a wet ‘pop’. The fact that he refers to himself in such terms mid-coitus is equally ridiculous and endearing.

“Ngh, it’s, ah-” He pumps into you again, slow and steady this time, “it’s fine, boss, I can take it. You feel good.” That was a gross understatement. The fullness of him inside you makes you want to cry out.

His hands slide to the insides of your knees and he pushes against them, splaying your legs further apart and folding you in on yourself, knees almost touching your chest. Repositioned like this, he manages to sink a measure deeper and fully hilt himself. You gurgle at the long awaited skin-to-skin contact, your lower halves flush against one another, the feel of his body grazing your clit. Coarse hair along his treasure trail tickles your stomach as he rocks his hips over and over against you.

Your hands skitter about his body, smoothing over his neck and shoulders and arms, finally uninhibited and wanting to touch everything. Knotted, tightly-wound muscles beneath the surface of his skin ripple as he moves, quivering with tension. Suddenly there’s so much you want to explore and experience about him and you realize you might never get another chance. 

Eyes fluttering shut, you reach up to tenderly weave your hands through his hair. It’s voluminous and surprisingly soft. Your mouth finds his neck, dotting it with multitudinous small kisses, faintly feeling the rapid beat of his pulse against your lips. He rewards your doting with a particularly impassioned shove, increasing his tempo. One of the hands holding your knees at bay abandons its post, moving to gently cradle your head instead. The gesture would be almost romantic if he wasn’t mounting you so roughly.

He sits himself up to look at you and better leverage his thrusts. Looming over, his perpetually tired eyes cloud with lust and he looks half-crazed as he pummels you into the mattress. Your snatch twitches at the sight of him looking so addled amidst being violently tossed about by the motions of his hips. Harsh metallic creaking punctuates each inward thrust, the entire bedframe lurching in the throes of Guzma’s fierce lovemaking.

You realize that he’s not in his right mind, temporarily a creature of baser instincts under the influence of the pheromones, but you’re beyond the point of caring. The man you’ve served and followed and idolized at a distance has you beneath him. Your bodies are joined together, mingling and defenseless, and it all feels like some benevolent dream. You don’t know how much of this he’ll remember.

The elation between your legs reaches boiling point, orgasm fast approaching. You sink your fingers deep into his broad back, squeezing your thighs around his hips to pull him as deep into you as he could go. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed with feeling for him. It doesn’t matter if everything goes back to normal after this. In this one, perfect moment, you want to tell him how you feel. You open your mouth, about to speak, when he suddenly doubles over under the weight of his own climax and you hear him say something between his ragged breathing. 

“L... Lusa...”

You can’t make out exactly what he said - or was trying to say - but somehow you knew it was someone’s name. It wasn’t yours.

All the ecstasy is ripped from you in an instant, all your senses returning at once and clearer than ever. You feel like you want to be sick.

Despite your best effort to suppress yourself, you choke out a sob as he grunts with one last push, emptying himself inside you. You feel the slight pulse of the ejaculation and a gush of warmth at your core, his body shivering. Guzma takes a few moments to catch his breath and withdraws. He slowly sits up, blinking and looking pleasantly sedate.

“Good girl, good girl. Ya liked that?”

You try to look up at him but find that you can’t meet his gaze directly. Pushed to your limit, the tears gathered in your eyes finally spill out and roll down your cheeks. It wasn’t the reaction he expected. You can hear his breath hitch as the color drains from his face and suddenly he looks more alarmed than you’ve ever seen him. You have no idea what he must have been thinking other than it had to be some variation of ‘I fucked up’.

Unable to cope any longer, you grab the pillow from under your head and roll onto your side, curling up and burying your face. He backs off immediately and stands. There’s a silence for a while and then a rustling of clothes as he redresses. Something heavy and warm is placed on you and you realize that it’s his jacket. Was this his shitty attempt at an apology? 

The sound of heavy footfalls alerts you to the fact that he’s leaving. You hear a painful ‘thud’ and realize that Guzma walked into the door frame on his exit attempt, probably still coming off the pheromone haze. The door is quietly pulled shut rather than slammed, which is a rarity.

Alone now, you spread out on your back and stare blankly at the ceiling. Your chest aches and you don’t want to move. You mentally chastise yourself for ever having the audacity to believe you had a chance with him, lowly grunt that you were. Of course he already had someone else he loved. Of course.

Out the corner of your eye, you can make out the letter from earlier on the floor. It must’ve fallen out of his pocket at some point. You don’t care to read it anymore.


End file.
